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Grant’s Gym is a cramped, back-alley affair. It’s not the kind of place that should, according to building regulations and city officials who’ve not lived through New York in the 1940s alike, exist in its current fully-functioning form, minus the air-conditioning that’d taken a leave of absence just last week. Gotham lets a lot slide though. Alan, in recent years, does too. He’s here in his civvies, not too rare a sight.
The guys in the ring, familiar faces he can’t quite put a name to, take a moment to nod in Alan’s general direction as he maneuvers his way through the belly of the beast and up the stairs. It’s hard not to wonder what impression he’s left behind, second nature at times, though he knows a man of his stature needs little reason to be here, unassuming sweater-vest or not. Still, it’s that and the distinct impression that he’s drowning in a sort of putrid sea of dirty socks that occur to Alan as he finds himself at the front door of the apartment Ted still keeps here.
In the most inoffensive terms he can think of while half-holding his breath, the place reeks. He knocks twice, more desperate than he’d care to admit.
Phones are fickle, former and current members of the Justice Society of America seldom use theirs. It’s just about the only reason Alan’s decided to drop by and personally ensure Ted’s yet to forget about Jay and Joan’s anniversary party tonight. Molly will -- if Joan’s got any say in the matter -- most definitely be there and Alan would love to have someone in his corner, even if it’s gotta be Ted.
He knocks again.
Alan’s got a key, of course. He’s just never used it before. It’d seemed like a sensible enough idea, back in the day. Alan, Jay, Ted, Al, Johnny and a couple of others had exchanged addresses and spare keys -- a sort of failsafe, after a fashion, If I don’t come home- and words that’d never dare to follow.
Well, he’s here now, raised hackles and all. Something’s wrong, Alan thinks as he waits, suffocates just enough on the unbearable aroma of Grant’s Gym. In the unbroken silence, he determines it takes a special kind of criminal insanity to live above a gym.
And, all the same, no answer comes.
Ted can’t be at the brownstone because Alan’s coming from there and if he’s learned anything about certain ex-heavyweight champions, it’s the undeniable fact that Ted would rather face immediate physical harm than get up before 1 PM. It’s early, he should be in. Alan’s turning the key in the lock before he’s even convinced himself to do so, pushing open the creaking door faster than he can justify the abrupt unease in his gut.
He stumbles over something in the hallway, catches himself before he can swear under his breath and turns back to glare at the culprit. It’s--
A whip.
“Was that the door?”
That’s Ted, faintly muffled, vaguely amused.
“Hm, does it m--”
Alan coughs, not through any conscious need to alert anyone of his presence but rather a dawning awareness that he’s walked straight into some sort of unimaginable horror, that if Ted’s in danger then he can certainly handle himself and there’s no need for Alan to--
He takes another faltering step out of some ill-advised desire to make sure he’s not leaving an old friend to an untimely death and, in spite of himself, screams. It’s a high-pitched, cartoonish sound that Alan’s almost certain he’s never made before. There’s Ted, laughing it off with a young woman in his lap that Alan belatedly recognises as Selina Kyle, who he’s met twice before in far less indecent circumstances.
“Thought that key was for emergencies only, big guy,” Ted says, smarmy smile firmly in place where he’s peeking from behind Selina.
It’s not the first time Alan’s seen him shirtless, he’d attended a couple of matches when it’d seemed appropriate and Ted had taken it upon himself to teach him how to properly throw a punch on more than one occasion but--
Well.
Never like this.
Alan can feel himself burning with the force of the blush climbing up to his ears, ready and willing to disintegrate into a pile of ashes right here and now. In fact, he’d even make it easy and bring the ring into the mix if the ability to move hadn’t deserted him.
Instead of the sweet release of a quick death, what Alan does get is Selina blowing a kiss at him in the process of climbing out the window, which she must’ve reached while he’d been otherwise preoccupied imagining his own hopefully well-attended funeral. He glances back at the whip still laying in the hallway, harmlessly out of place. Alan doesn’t want to know what’s been done with it. In hindsight, it must’ve once once rested at Selina’s hip, part of the catsuit that’s thankfully been left undisturbed by any wandering hands.
“I’ll see you around, kitty-cat,” Selina says-- purrs, really, then ducks out.
Ted’s gotten up somewhere along the line and Alan, still rooted to the spot, can’t say he expects the arm thrown around his shoulders. “You scared off my girl, y’know,” he remarks but doesn’t sound particularly broken up over it. “So, lemme guess, Per Degaton at it again?”
The fact of the matter is that Ted’s shirtless, regrettably and regretfully pressed up very close and Alan’s spent great chunks of his life trying to come to terms with certain issues he can’t speak the name of even in his own mind.
It’s a heady combination, abruptly interrupted by indignation.
“Jesus Christ, Ted, she’s young enough to be your--”
“Alan.”
Right. Maybe it’s a well-worn conversation, Ted’s never asked for anyone’s approval and Alan isn’t here to report any findings to Bruce Wayne. He coughs again, still reeling from a far too exhilarating morning. “I just wanted to remind you about Jay and Joan’s anniversary party tonight,” he admits, growing quieter with every word. Not all that significant, now.
It’s hard not to dwell on just how easily Alan might’ve avoided this catastrophe.